


On Phoenix Wings

by BlindRef



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-05-16 13:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19319164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindRef/pseuds/BlindRef
Summary: If Nico di Angelo knew what sort of a pain in the ass the young man he’d met on that cold, dreary autumn day was going to be, he might’ve considered ramming his Stygian sword through the jerk’s chest the instant they met.Well, met is a very polite way of putting it. And, frankly, can you really say you “met” someone when they bump into you, smear blood all over your favorite jacket, and then snap a monster’s neck with a wave of a stick?Confusing? Perhaps a more detailed explanation is in order.A young man from England appears on a mission, searching for artifacts of a nature which unsettle even the children of Hecate. Pursued by mages in black cloaks and white masks, he has come at the behest of an Olympian, bound by a debt incurred in centuries past and driven to reclaim the honor of his fallen family.And to avenge a broken friend.





	1. Bloody Brit

If Nico di Angelo knew what sort of a pain in the ass the young man he’d met on that cold, dreary autumn day was going to be, he might’ve considered ramming his Stygian sword through the jerk’s chest the instant they met.

Well, met is a very polite way of putting it. And, frankly, can you really say you “met” someone when they bump into you, smear blood all over your favorite jacket, and then snap a monster’s neck with a wave of a stick?

Confusing? Perhaps a more detailed explanation is in order. 

Never let it be said that the son of Hades didn’t try to pull his weight for Camp Half-Blood and Jupiter. His two homes were just that—his. And he was rather tired of being on the outside looking in.

Of course, at the time he’d confessed such to his former crush and friends, he figured they’d take it a little easy. Maybe involve him in the counselors meetings, an invitation for a quest would be most welcome—if only for a little bit of cathartic monster slaying—or maybe he could convince them to take him to the movies.

Granted, they did all of that. Happily, too, much to his surprise. But they also insisted he take some level of responsibility for some of the more time-honored traditions of the older demigod campers.

They, one should note, as in the two boys who held the most sway in his life.

Nico growled as he was bumped by yet another teenage girl looking down at her cell phone. “Going to kill Grace if he shoots that damned smile at me when I get back,” he muttered. “And Jackson will be running from skeletons for a lifetime if he does his innocent routine asking how things went.”

The girl and her friends turned, giggling at him and whispering to one another. Most boys, Nico mused dryly, would’ve probably found that flattering. Leo might have blushed.

He shoved that notion into a mental trunk and locked it tight. Clearing the way of monsters for a halfblood escort party. Well, it wasn’t the worst idea Percy had come up with—that it had been his before Annabeth’s had been quite a moment for all of them—but still.

Nico couldn’t shake the distinct feeling that he’d been given grunt work so he wouldn’t scare the new campers. A notion Leo hadn’t helped.

“Don’t feel too bad, Nico!” he’d crowed as he threw an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “It’s just that your death glare is better suited for making monsters cry for mommy than it is telling kids it’ll all be okay soon. Heh! Get it? Death glare?”

That Piper had beaten him to slugging Leo’s shoulder didn’t diminish the satisfaction in watching him whine about it.

He stopped at the corner of the street, his dyslexia making quite a challenge of discerning the street signs as he gazed across the way at Fenway Park. Off to his left, he could hear those girls still giggling before they disappeared down the steps leading into the subway tunnel, the idle thrum of streetlights turning on as the sun came to a rest beyond the horizon. All quiet for a change.

Good. Maybe this time, things could go off without a hitch.

Naturally, it was right about the instant Nico allowed that thought to creep into his head that he felt another shoulder bump against his left arm and sent him staggering a step. His nostrils flaring, he reached up to brush his arm off and turned to level a glare at the offender’s back, right at the visage of fiery orange wings spread across the back of a hooded jacket, a pointed barb on the tip of his tongue.

Then he felt something warm and sticky between his fingers, a familiar feeling.

Nico looked down, his brows raised at the hot, crimson blood staining his fingers. The figure of a boy of fourteen or fifteen, barely older than he, stumbled and caught himself upon the railing leading down into the subway tunnel, one of his arms clutched tight against his midsection and the other holding a long, polished stick. He glanced back over his shoulder, a pair of emerald eyes framed by a mess of raven black hair pierced through a pair of thick-rimmed glasses covered in dirt.

Looking at something just over Nico’s shoulder.

The son of Hades made to turn, his fingers brushed against the hilt of his Stygian blade.

The boy’s free hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. His eyes transfixing Nico in place. “Don’t,” he hissed. “If you turn, they’ll see and think you’re helping me!”

A sharp cracking sound from somewhere behind him made the hair on the back of Nico’s neck stand on end. The boy’s eyes widened a fraction, he released Nico’s hand and shuffled down the stairs as fast as he could, a dark trail down his left leg telling of his wound.

A pair of men in long, black robes cursed, then pushed their way passed Nico and hurried down the stairs after the boy, each clenching sticks of their own in their fists.

They weren’t monsters.

Monsters, to his knowledge, didn’t go chasing after mortals with sticks. Or demigods, for that matter.

Tree limbs? That would’ve been more up their alley, and, for a moment, Nico wondered if they might have been skilled enough in controlling the mist to alter even his perception.

No, he told himself. I would feel something off. Even something like that.

Nico di Angelo skulked after them, drawing his blade slowly and gritting his teeth at the hiss of Stygian steel sliding free of its sheath. He heard one cry out a name, “Potter!”

He reached the third to last step just in time to see the boy, Potter, apparently, standing in an open space between the men and those girls who’d giggled at Nico moments prior. Potter turned slowly, the labor of his motion showing how he favored that left leg.

The speaker leveled his stick at Potter like he was pointing a gun. “Surrender the artifact,” he demanded in his thick English accent. “The Dark Lord has grown tired of your insolence.”

“But he is not without mercy,” the other took up, like a dutiful subordinate. “Surrender it to us, lay down your wand, and, with your talent, he will consider you a viable candidate in his ranks with our recommendation.”

Nico found himself reminded of some of Gaea’s giant children, how they spoke of her in hushed reverence, and how she herself would promise the sky, moon, and stars if they would only just walk away and let her plans unfold.

His grip tightened. Potter was wounded, a boy at most only a year his senior. While Nico couldn’t kill a mortal, he could certainly rescue one. But how to do it without startling the girls?

Potter spared him any such need to consider. He stumbled back and jerked his stick at one, his emerald eyes flashing dangerously as a loud bang echoed through the underground station.

The men raised their sticks and flicked them as if to parry a sword strike. A flash of blue-white light crackled against an invisible shield, the very air before them rippling beneath the force. Powerful, deadly.

Magic, he realized. But different than Lou Ellen and Hecate’s children. Which means those aren’t just sticks, they’re wands.

Wizards, in a more classical sense. Like his old Mythomagic game. 

Their counter spells came in rapid succession. Potter didn’t bother trying to throw up his own shield, instead hurling himself sideways, bad leg and all, and swept his wand across his body like he were swinging a short sword. An arc of purple flames shot through the air at them, another pair of shields parried his blow. The first speaker thrust his wand at Potter and sent a thin bolt that would’ve put a hole through the boy’s forehead if he hadn’t ducked just in time.

It was right about that time Nico decided he’d seen enough and made his move. 

Ducking low, he swiped his sword across the back of the second speaker’s calves with a flick of his wrist. The man fell to his knees with a ragged gasp, eyes wide as he turned to have the hilt jabbed into his forehead. His eyes crossed before he slumped to the ground, unconscious. 

His partner turned, his face turning an ugly shade of puce and wand raised. A curse, no doubt, on the tip of his tongue.

In his rage, he’d forgotten his surroundings. Namely, the young wizard rising from his knees, wand alight with his next spell.

Long enough that Potter could add a little flourish as he snapped, “Immobulous!” 

A ripple of magic hit the man before he could alter course, and froze him in place, eyes wide and wand aimed at the ground. 

Potter seized on his chance. He staggered to his feet, approaching in a clumsy, lumbering limp. With a growl of “Stupefy!” he shot a jet of red light at the man’s chest and dropped him cold. 

Blinking, Nico fixed the approaching boy with a critical stare. He knew magic, he’d seen it many times before, but not this sort.

And never practiced so openly outside Camp Halfblood or Jupiter that he recalled.

The boy heaved a sigh, exhausted from running and injury. “Thanks,” he said with a weak smile. “Guess I did need your help after all.”

Nico hummed an affirmation, his mind working rapidly. His eyes flitting at the men laying slumped on the floor, he looked into Potter’s.

Emerald and raven hair. Why that combination?

He shook himself. He could lament the Fates playing games with him later. “You keep odd company, Potter,” Nico mused with a pointed look at the boy’s wounded leg. “And friendly, I see.:

“Call me a charmer,” Potter replied with a pained smile. He offered his free hand, his palm stained red by a trail of blood from somewhere along his forearm. “Thanks again for the help. Harry Potter.”

Nico eyed his hand a moment, but didn’t accept it. “Nico di Angelo,” he drawled. “You sound like you’re a long way from home.”

Harry’s smile showed teeth. “Well, you see, summer holiday and all—”

“Dueling wizards is your summer holiday? In autumn, no less?”

“Er …”

“And bleeding all over Boston?” Nico arched a brow. “And my favorite jacket.”

The boy had the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry about that. For what it’s worth, I tripped and was trying not to drape myself across your back.”

Again, he hummed. He cast a glance at those girls. They hadn’t run.

Why hadn’t they run? Or phoned the police, at least?

And why were they still watching? Hungrily, at that?

A lump of ice dropped into the pit of his stomach. It clicked at last. Nico positioned himself on Harry’s left side, protecting the boy’s wounded flank. “How fast can you move on that leg?”

“Er …” Harry blinked. “Not terribly, but I’m not crippled. Interrogation over already?”

“No.” The girls began to drift closer, Nico’s eyes narrowed. There were a few possibilities. None of them good. “Interrogation’s on hold for now.” He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and gave a light push. “Get topside. Now.”

Unfortunately, Harry either didn’t catch the urgency in his tone or he had the same problem most heroic types Nico had met suffered—an uncanny desire to stand in place and die spectacularly. The son of Hades put four drachma on the latter, mostly because the boy had the gall to try to turn and hobble forward so he could stand side by side with Nico.

And then he stared. “Er … you want us to run from a couple girls, mate?”

“No.” Nico tensed. He couldn’t draw in too much on his powers, not if he didn’t want to risk caving in the subway. “Because those girls aren’t humans.”

“Aww! That little halfblood saw through us, girls!” the one who had been playing with her phone giggled, her eyes glittering in the darkness. She stalked toward them, her smile one of promise meant to lull the mind and dull senses. “Come here, darling,” she crooned, the magic in her voice filling the air like a siren’s song. “Such brave, handsome boys deserve a kiss, no?”

Nico felt her spell clouding his mind. He shook it off, grunting and blinking against the force of magic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry stiffen, his knee shift as if to take a step forward. He reached out and caught the boy by his injured arm and squeezed.

Hissing in pain, Harry jerked his arm out of Nico’s grasp and glared. But he stayed where he was.

“Empousai,” Nico warned. “Vampires with hypnotic voices.”

“You’re joking?” Harry wrinkled his nose. Were it not for the paleness in his features, it might have looked cute. At Nico’s nod, he straightened up and readied his wand. “Thanks. Never thought Hermione shoving books in my face might save my life—though, maybe I should’ve by now.”

“Not the time.” Nico guided him back, back toward the stairwell. He needed to touch the shadows, but those empousai weren’t going to just let him get to the only exit. His eyes flitted upward to the ceiling lights, then back just as quickly. “How much do you have left in you?”

“Huh?”

“How much more magic can you cast?” 

The empousai licked their lips as fangs began to show. The mist fell, exposing razor sharp talons and mismatched legs.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. “What the bloody—illusions now?”

“Magic,” Nico hissed. “You. Casting. How much do you have left in you?”

Glancing from Nico to the girls and back again, Harry shook his head. “Enough for whatever you need.”

Now, there was the sort of reply Nico was used to. Almost like he was back on the Argo II.

Out of the corner of his mouth, he murmured, “When I tell you, get the lights. All of them.”

“Are you mad?” Harry lashed out with his arm and sent a bolt at the empousai’s feet in warning. They didn’t slow. “Fighting vampires in the dark?”

“Trust me.” Nico grabbed him by the wrist and held fast. “Do it and then take a deep breath, and don’t throw up on me.”

Despite himself, Harry turned to level him with a quizzical look. “What?”

The empousai hissed and lunged for them, their eyes alight with a manic, hungry gleam.

Nico flicked the his blade in a wide arc and availed two of their heads in one swing and both dissolved into dust, the third danced to his left, just out of reach. “Cast! Now!”

With a wave of his wand, Harry snuffed every light in the station and shrouded them in darkness.

More than enough for Nico to summon forth the power to dissolve them in shadows and let the station disappear.

***

His intent had been to find some nice, quiet corner where he could ensure he was within his range to protect the retrieval party while he slowly drew information from his wounded compatriot. Unfortunately, though Nico had indeed improved greatly on his shadow traveling talents—much to his friends’ chagrin once they’d learned the cost—he still held one or two rather pesky limitations.

That he needed to know exactly how many and what he was transporting? Normally, when he only had to worry about himself and wherever he wanted to go, Nico didn’t have to worry about a thing.

But when a hungry empousa grabs onto the one passenger he wanted to bring along for the ride and did her very best to hold him in place so she could savor every drop of blood and piece of flesh rent from their bodies, one might understand how that could throw him just a bit off target.

So, instead of the nice, side street where they could easily duck into a building to wait her out while she stalked about and keep a weather eye on the streets in case the others came through with the new campers, Nico fell and landed hard on his back. 

He could feel soft grass tickling the back of his neck, the stars above spinning as spots danced before his very eyes and the musty smell of clay. Blinking, Nico pushed himself to a seated position and shook his head. Where had they ended up?

A quick glance to his left presented him with a wide, empty swath of grass leading up to a short green wall and rows upon rows of empty seats. Nico could something that looked vaguely like a scoreboard and advertisements, a row of stadium lights, and, upon some sort of observation deck, the words “Fenway Park” written in red script upon a white background.

Oh, great. Nico grimaced. And there couldn’t be a game going on for us to slip through the crowd at least.

A sharp hiss and yelp of surprise drew his attention to his left. There, laying on his back, his hands locked around the wrists of that last empousa and arms outstretched to keep both talon and fang from his skin. Harry twisted and turned, kicking out as best he could to help keep her weight from falling fast and buckling his elbows. 

The empousa jerked his injured arm, drawing a pained cry and forcing is elbow to bend. Her talons sliced his skin from his wrist to his forearm, her eyes alight with sadistic glee.

She didn’t realize she’d allowed him to turn his wand into her chest until he gasped, “Relashio!”

His wand let out a shriek, a jet of gray-blue light lit up the empousa’s face and threw her twenty feet into the air, her arms and legs windmilling as if she hoped to fly.

She did not.

Her reunion with solid ground came with a most satisfying thud! But she didn’t stay down. She rolled onto her belly, her eyes glowing and flaming hair whipped into a frenzy as her talons twisted and rent a large clump free of the hallowed sports ground. Then, she darted forward in a blur and swiped at Nico’s face.

The son of Hades parried her claws with a deft turn of his sword, just in the nick of time. His blade’s edge bit into her palms, beads of glittering gold ichor rolled down her wrists. Nico set his feet, gritting his teeth as she hissed and leaned in, baring her fangs.

“Sorry,” he drawled. “But you’re really just not my type.” With a quick shift of his stance and hips, Nico twisted and drove the pommel of his sword across her face. 

She staggered, wiping a hand across her face. “O positive,” she hissed. “Pity. You’re just mine.”

To his left, Nico noticed Harry rising finally. The wizard aimed his wand, he only needed one chance, tired though he was.

Sword or wand. They had the advantage. They just needed to see who she went for first, and not miss the chance.

Her eyes betrayed her first. The empousa feinted toward Nico and lunged for the wizard, no doubt banking that she could take out the ranged fighter with ease and limit her opponents. Smart.

Though not quick enough. 

Harry gave his wand a little swish and jab. Another bang rang out through the night air and thick ropes sprang forth like snakes lunging for their meal, forcing her to dive and alter course, instead swiping at Nico’s neck.

He managed to block one hand, her other moved in a blue and buried her talons into his bicep. A pained cry tore from the back of his throat, his vision blurred. He saw her grin and jerk his sword out of his hand and ready to rip out his throat.

Then, there was a ripple through the air. The empousa had a split second to register something was amiss before her head suddenly jerked and a series of sickening cracks pierced the air. She slumped forward and dissolved in a shower of gold dust, just like her sisters.

Harry Potter lowered his wand, a cold look settled upon his features. He drew in a deep breath and held it a moment, his shoulders tensed, he squeezed his eyes shut and seemed to try to shake himself. 

Nico let his shoulder relax. “First time?” he asked. “Killing a monster, I mean.”

The boy shook his head. “A few. Never one I enjoy, especially the ones who look more mortal.”

Must not deal with a lot then, Nico mused. Or he gets chased around by other mortals more than he does monsters, so he’s skewed toward dealing with them. He brought his sword down and took the time to survey his counterpart again, taking note of his appearance.

While Nico wasn’t exactly one for fashion, Harry didn’t pull off any semblance of what one might call the “proper wizard” look at all, other than the wand clutched in his hand. His jeans were well-worn and held up by an old leather belt, his shoes looked as though he’d bought them at the dollar store, and his once white shirt beneath his gray hooded jacket had been stained crimson and gold with blood and ichor.

He looked like any other kid.

How many times have I thought that since leaving the hotel? Nico discreetly adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword. “So,” he began, picking up right where they’d left off, “summer holiday in autumn.”

Through his pain and weariness, Harry had the grace to wince. “Don’t suppose I could ask you to pretend too buy that one if anyone asks?”

Nico narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. “You owe me an explanation. I don’t think you’re in any position to ask anything of me right now.”

“Do I?” Harry’s smile became strained. He took a step back, his eyes flitting to the blade of Nico’s Stygian sword. “Something to do with that half-blood business?”

Trying to increase distance and at least give himself a chance to duck if he needed. Smart. If he weren’t exhausted and injured.

“You could say that.” Nico followed, his motions as deliberate as a predator stalking its prey. “Mortal wizards and monsters, and drawn off-course because of you. What in Hades’s name did you steal that saw you running through Boston like that?”

“Steal? Me?” His emerald eyes flitted down and away.

Not a good liar at all.

The son of Hades tightened his grip. “What artifact were they after?” he asked in a low, dangerous tone. “And who is this Dark Lord who wants it badly enough to send two grown wizards after the likes of you?”

Something flashed across Harry Potter’s eyes. Irritation? Pride? Or perhaps just some sort of fire he kept hidden behind that crooked smile and pisspoor alibi.

“I like to think of myself as a professional nuisance for their master,” Harry replied. “That said, I’ve got a bit of a schedule to keep, so … how about a mulligan on the explanation?” His wand hand twitched, the tip raising just slightly. 

Nico’s blade came up, level with the wand. “An inch higher and I split it in two,” he warned. “And you’ll be face down in the grass telling me what I want to know.”

Nodding, Harry made a show of lowering hid wand to his side. “Fair enough. I won’t point a wand at you. Although—” his eyes shone with mischief “—I feel I should warn you, I know something you don’t.”

Alarm bells rang in Nico’s head. He brought his blade up beneath Harry’s chin and forced him to tilt it up. Something about the way moonlight glinted off those dingy glasses gave him a split second’s pause.

That split second was all Harry needed.

The wizard smirked. “The wand only helps a little,” he said as he turned up his empty hand and opened his fingers to reveal a globe of light the size of a baseball.

Nico made the mistake of looking down at it, just long enough to get a face-full of light and sound as it exploded in Harry’s palm. A flashbang spell.

The son of Hades staggered back and threw his opposite forearm across his eyes, his ears ringing like the shrill whistle of a train. By the time it all stopped, by the time his vision returned and spots stopped dancing before his eyes, Nico di Angelo found himself alone in the middle of Fenway Park.

Alone, without a sign of Harry Potter’s flight.

When the grounds crew arrived for their morning shift, they were perplexed by the jagged tears cutting from the infield to the pitcher’s mound, as if a small, localized earthquake had carved out a chunk of one of baseball’s most hallowed fields. The patches of dead, footprint-shaped patches leading from just past second base to the dugouts was almost mundane by comparison.

The lingering chill down their spines gave the distinct feeling of someone, something powerful present.

And it was angry.


	2. Ruins of Power

Though monster attacks had grown somewhat infrequent since Gaea’s fall, the arrival of a new camper, safe and sound, was a rather joyous event in Camp Half Blood.

From his place seated on the porch of Cabin Thirteen, shaded by the awning as he watched with hawkish eyes, Nico could say he felt anything but joyous at that moment. Even as he watched his friends and half-sister lead a pair of starry-eyed children no older than nine around and explain their heritage, the truth of the gods and demigods. Unbidden, memories of himself in their place a mere four years prior flitted through his mind.

Nico closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. He forced them back, back into the metaphysical cage he’d housed them in since that talk with Bianca’s shade, just in time to halt a tremor beneath his cabin.

They had arrived safe. His friends had all made it home without so much as a scratch, even Valdez managed to avoid blowing something up with that silly dragon contraption he loved so.

Yet his thoughts remained on that blasted boy, that wizard and his kin.

The son of Hades scratched at the bandages wrapped around his arm and sent silent thanks to Will Solace once more. A fast friend, that son of Apollo, and quite handy with the medical tools and herbs.

And an open ear to hear the plight of a fellow half-blood whose tastes trended toward his own sex, even if they’d chosen to remain friends.

Now, if he could be so kind as to quit being the beaming—aha—son of Apollo that he was, finish up with the new campers, and jog his happy blond self over, Nico might have someone tolerable to chat with. A necessity, after that maddening conversation with the wizard boy.

Conversation.

What a joke. 

He glowered at a cluster of bushes across the path, watching as their leaves slowly began to wither and turn an ugly gray beneath his gaze. It gave him little solace to imagine the wizard faltering under his power, but it was the next best thing.

Followed, perhaps, by Stygian steel run through his sternum.

Another slow breath gave his mind clarity. Nico rested his elbows upon his knees, lacing his fingers together. Harry Potter. That boy had made a crucial mistake when their paths had crossed in Boston.

He’d tricked the son of Hades. Harry Potter had pulled one over on the Ghost King himself.

There would be another meeting. That much, Nico had promised himself as soon as he’d halted the fissure from splitting Fenway Park in two. Their paths would cross again and it would be Harry Potter who found himself strung up and left helpless.

But first, Nico needed to study his quarry. A difficult task, when he didn’t have the knowledge of where the boy made his home as he had when he was scheming to lure Percy into the Underworld, but hardly impossible. There were always ways to get information, no matter how secretive or hidden one might be.

As dad would say, Nico thought with a grim smile, I just need to find the right thread to pull and make his world unravel.

So engrossed in his musings was the young son of Hades that he didn’t notice the two boys approaching until one, the broad-shouldered son of Jupiter, plopped down on his right side and slapped one of those bone crushing hands upon his left shoulder to pull him into a loose, one-armed embrace.

“Now, here’s a hero who didn’t show up to get his due when we walked the kids into the Big House,” Jason announced with a half grin. 

On his left, Percy Jackson leaned against the wall and allowed himself to slide down and sit beside him. The son of Poseidon might not have cut quite the imposing figure as his Roman counterpart, but both had the skill and resume to put respect to their name. “You okay, Nico?” he asked.

Nico huffed a breath through his nose and glanced between his friends. “Just peachy. Why?” 

Percy cast a meaningful glance across the path. “Well, you’ve proven that looks can, in fact, kill, and when we brought the new kids by, you were so focused Leo wondered if you might be thinking of how to string him up rather than giving that little smile and nod you typically greet the kiddies with—”

“Though, to be honest,” Jason interrupted. “Glaring at Leo like that is kinda camp passtime. In both camps.”

“True. Anyway.” Percy shouldered him gently, jostling the son of Hades between the older boys like one of those metal balls on a wire. “Any reason you’re glaring those azaleas into an early grave, Neeks?”

With a roll of his eyes, Nico muttered, “Just thinking through some things.”

“Things, eh?”

“Would you prefer stuff?”

Jason flicked his earlobe and chided, “Go easy on the sarcasm. You were happy and chatting before we left, and now you’re over here brooding when you should be greeting campers and collecting thanks for keeping an eye out for roaming monsters.” His smile faded. “So, what’s up? Why’re you killing azaleas when you should be killing glasses of soda with the rest of us?”

His shoulders slumped. Why did they have to do this every time he went off to be alone? “It’s nothing,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Just how I do things.”

“Oh, no.” In one swift motion, Percy shifted himself and moved so he was facing Nico, their knees touching. “None of that brooding where you withdraw and disappear,” he said, pointing and circling his fingers through the air. “We’re your friends, Neeks. Friends talk.”

A glower did little to dissuade the son of Poseidon.

Rather, it only seemed to embolden him. Percy leaned forward and rested his arms upon his knees. “C’mon, Neeks. Don’t make me beg.”

“Why would—oh, Hell, no!” Nico made to rise, but found himself pulled back down before he could reach his feet. 

Jason held him fast. “You might as well tell us. You know he’ll say it, and I’m not gonna let go if you try shadow traveling.”

A flat look did about as much as his glowering. Where had that unease they’d held toward him gone? Nico could use a bit of that right about now.

Percy gave a heavy sigh. “All right. Look, Nico—”

“Oh, gods, fine!” Nico threw his hands up. “Just lay off the guilt trip, please!” That his former crush had the sheer audacity to flash a grin only served to stoke his ire. Maybe he could get away with a swift kick to the gut. 

No, of course not. Jason would laugh, but hold him fast, and Percy would only find more reason to poke and prod.

Such was the life of having friends. Why did it have to make him feel so warm to think so? 

With a snarl, he glared over Percy’s shoulder at that cluster of dead azaleas. Pity they couldn’t be more dead unless he set them on fire. “Maybe the stupid bushes asked for it,” he replied. “Maybe the azalea bushes were cut open and bleeding out in the middle of downtown Boston, dragged me off my assignment to save its stupid self from a pair of freaking wizards and then nearly got both of us eaten by empousai."

The son of Poseidon blinked. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. “I … didn’t know bushes could do that, but thanks for letting me know we should watch out for what those Demeter kids put in the fertilizer.”

And there was his humor.

Nico kicked his shin. “Shut up, Percy.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Percy grimaced, rubbing at his shin. “So, did the—ah—bushes at least thank you for saving them?”

Another heavy sigh, this time through his nose. Nico leveled him with that flat stare and waited.

Percy winced. “Ah. Well … shoot. I’m sorry, Neeks.”

And why did he have to be so sincere? Nico shook his head. “It’s fine,” he muttered. “Not your fault. Just annoyed.”

He felt Jason’s arm leave his shoulders, the son of Jupiter leaned forward and frowned. “Do you want to talk about it or would you like some time alone?”

Understanding. The corner of Nico’s mouth twitched. “I just need some time to think it over,” he said finally. “And figure a few things out.”

“Fair enough.” With a grunt, Jason rose, pausing only to tussle Nico’s messy hair and kick Percy’s leg. “Come on, Jackson. Let’s give him a little space, eh?”

“Yeah, yeah. Kick me again, though …” 

The pair rose and bade Nico goodbye before they set off to find the others, bickering and bantering about who would put a boot in whose ass if it came to fighting again, and just what the other could do about it.

Leaving Nico to stew once more. 

He eyed the dead azalea’s again, then let his gaze flit down the row of cabins toward the Big House, where the rest of the group stood with those two young campers. From about twenty paces awayPercy turning and walking backward a few steps to call out, “Don’t forget to actually introduce yourself, Neeks!”

Nico snorted. Of course.

He’d have to make sure they didn’t think him some terror, or Hazel would surely come over and prod him next. And, with her, Annabeth.

“Magic outside of Hecate’s lineage,” he murmured, aiming his gaze skyward. “Is that possible?”

No angry rumble sounded in the distance. Perhaps Hecate’s temperament wasn’t quite as volatile as his father’s. Or she, as the goddess of trivia, the mist, magic, and crossroads, found his musings … intriguing.

Why, though?

Nico pressed the heels of his hands against is eyes and rubbed hard as if to chase away exhaustion, then rose, wincing at the ache in his knees. All these questions about magic flitting through his mind, there were only one or two places he could go for answers.

The son of Hades walked down the path in the opposite direction Percy and Jason had gone. “Let’s just hope Lou Ellen is feeling a bit charitable with magic texts today,” he muttered.

***

On the opposite side of the Atlantic, deep in the heart of Scotland’s rolling green hills, a young wizard limped his way through the ruins of a once mighty castle which stood for a thousand years. The last remnants of Hogwarts, that famed school for witchcraft and wizardry destroyed in the last days of the war.

Harry couldn’t help but kick a fallen piece of stone across the ruined pathways leading into what he guessed used to be the Great Hall. He’d heard stories of Hogwarts and its splendor, how it once stood as the beacon of British magical power and education, the legacy of the founders themselves.

Legacies. 

He sniffed. Everyone was a legacy, one way or another.

They were all legacies of the one from which magic always came. The closest among them, in all the British Isles, had been cut down from their pedestal, their position as leaders and protectors throughout the centuries.

All save one.

Harry found a slab of stone which came up to his knees and sat down upon it like a bench, taking stock of what was left. Four long tables, situated side by side, had been turned over, the one nearest to the far wall broken down the middle by a piece of ceiling, and the benches reduced to splinters. A quick glance up toward the dais showed those fabled hourglasses which displayed the points for the annual House Cup had been shattered along with the high arching windows behind the head table—well, where it would have been.

Just like Dumbledore had said.

He closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. What must this place have been like in his parents’ day? What might life have been like had he been able to attend with Ron and Hermione, and Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, too? Would they be in a house together, or would they be apart, friends across house lines?

“Crossroads in life, dear child,” a familiar voice sounded from but a few steps behind him. “Those taken by those who came before have led this once vibrant place to such a state, a monument to power lost and hubris.”

Harry didn’t look over his shoulder. “That portray took me to Hogsmede, Lady Hecate,” he said evenly.

“Necessary precautions.”

“I had to limp three miles to meet with you. Couldn’t we have held this somewhere closer to the village if you wanted to set my arrival for all the way out there? The Shrieking Shack, perhaps?”

“Ah.” He heard her steps against the stone floor, circling about him. “That place, a favored haunt of your late father and his friends.”

Pain shot through his chest. Harry’s eyes snapped open, he looked up, leveling a heated glare at the goddess of magic, that tall figure clad in a flowing black dress with wide brimmed sleeves and haunting back eyes, as she turned, leaving behind twin after images. Whispers of motions that might have been in another time.

With another choice of when to turn.

He reached into his pocket and fished out a small parcel bound in cloth, and tossed it carelessly across the floor. It skipped thrice across the floor and sprang free from its bindings to reveal an old golden trophy cup, still gleaming like the day it had been crafted.“As requested,” Harry drawled. “Helga Hufflepuff’s trophy cup. Six to go.”

“So you think.” Hecate’s eyes didn’t leave his. “Did you check to ensure it was genuine?”

His glare sharpened. Harry rose from his makeshift seat and reached for his left wrist, his fingers gripping the face of the silver watch, and gave it a quick twist. In a flash and singing ring of enchanted steel, he drew forth the fabled sword of Godric Gryffindor.

Gripping it tight, he strode toward the package and vanished the cloth. Harry hefted the sword in his hands and raised the moonlit blade high.

A sibilant hiss slithered to his ears. Harry could hear that cold, mocking voice, the same which haunted his nightmares since he was but a child.

“You will never find a place among her heirs,” the voice whispered. “Your family’s failure, the greatest shame of the accursed Order will never be washed away. The Potters will never–”

“I am convinced, child,” Hecate said, inclining her head. “Kindly destroy that cretin’s property, its presence offends me.”

Harry brought the sword down and clove the cup in two. It flashed a bright green and let out a shriek the likes of which couldn’t possibly have come from any human’s mouth. He felt his hair stand on end. Wincing, he turned away and brought a hand up to cover his ears.

Then, Hecate scowled at the foul thing and waved her fingers, and it fizzled out with one last strangled whimper.

And there was silence. 

Hecate glared at the cup a moment longer with such intensity, such raw disdain that Harry wondered if she might think to incinerate it and cast some terrible curse upon the land.

She returned her gaze to him once more, her expression one of neutral consideration. “Our business is concluded,” Hecate announced with utmost finality. “The next, you will find more perilous, a greater test of your skills.” Her eyes went to the wounds on his arm and leg. “And perhaps, greater vigilance.”

“If you have complaints about how I go about retrieving Voldemort’s trinkets, you can—” Harry’s jaw clamped shut seemingly of its own volition. He felt his knees buckle as Hecate brought to bear the weight of but a fraction of her power, and placed it squarely upon his shoulders.

She might as well have beseeched Poseidon to drop the English Channel on his head.

“Child,” Hecate said deliberately, “whatever your upbringing, whatever your future, whatever your heritage, understand this: I care not for what methods you utilize, I care not for how you go about your life so long as you do as your family did not. But understand that no matter your lineage, no matter your familiarity, your family owes me a great debt.”

Harry fell to his hands and knees. Through blurring vision, he could see the tips of those midnight black heels she favored a second before her magic hoisted him into the air so that he was at eye level with her.

“And no matter your familiarity, Harry Potter,” she continued. “You will repay it. There are six more yet. Find his horcruxes and right the balance between life and death and magic. Then, and only then, will our account be settled.”

Her piece said, the goddess of magic set Harry down on his feet, near enough, thankfully, to that slab of stone so he could stumble back and catch himself. She regarded him a moment longer, her expression unreadable.

She inclined her head. “I smell empousai on you,” she mused.

“Ran into three of them with another half-blood,” Harry grunted as he struggled to catch his breath. His wounds seemed to scream pain throughout his body. “He killed two, I finished the third after he somehow moved us from the subway to an American baseball park.”

“Moved, you say?” Hecate arched a brow. “Apparation?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it before, certainly not that or a portkey.” He looked down at his leg and grimaced. “He asked me to douse the lights before he could do it—do you have ambrosia, by the way? Or at least a healing potion? I’ll take either right about now.”

Hecate hummed a low note and began to circle him, her brow creased in thought. “Travel from distance without the aid of magic. Through darkness, no less.” She regarded him out of the corner of her eye, an odd gleam playing in the light. “Carrying a Stygian blade, I suppose?”

“Yes, impressive, I know. But, seriously, my wounds—”

With a snap of her fingers, Hecate made a single ambrosia cake appear in his lap. Plenty to tend to his needs. “Interesting, very interesting,” she mused as Harry took a frustrated bite of ambrosia and savored the taste of treacle tart. “That you would meet him so soon, perhaps the Fates wish to make this into a game of sorts. Yes, the god of the underworld and goddess of magic united, so why not those of their lineage?”

Harry could feel the gashes along his leg, the claw marks digging into his arms slowly sealing. He let out a hiss of pain, gritting his teeth. “I don’t suppose there’s a point to this? I mean, was he impressive? Yes, bloody yes. And a mite fetching, I suppose, but I hardly see the big deal.”

The goddess stopped circling him and laughed—she actually [i]laughed[/i] at him! “Child, if only you knew what he and his friends have been through for this world. That boy, that halfblood is a warrior worthy of the legends they will write of him.”

“I … see.” Compliments? Status worthy of legends?

Perhaps I’ll have to take a bit more care next time. Harry looked down at his shoes, his gaze traveling along the trail of his own blood down his jeans and staining his trainers. If a next time happens, of course.

Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t suppose you’d have any idea where the next is?”

Hecate hummed. “That wretch seems to have made it his life’s work to defile everything sane and right in this realm, as though he thinks himself capable of remaking the pantheon himself.”

“An idiot—well, no,” Harry amended before she could correct him. “A madman, and one with the power to see it through. To some point.”

“Indeed.” Hecate shook her head. “He obsessed with escaping death and gaining some semblance of immortality. Old myths, stories of magic long thought lost were his inspiration.”

“I found that—” he nodded toward where the cup had been ”—in the dwelling of a rather inhospitable pair of gorgons. Sisters, I believe.”

“Yes, they would be. And they would be swayed by promises of feasting should he offer. Especially if he could provide legacies, those of blood nearer to my line.”

A low hum was his only reply. Harry nodded once. “I’ll go back to the States and see. Maybe I can find some hint as to whether he traveled about and where he might have gone next.”

Inclining her head, Hecate replied, “A wise choice, yet one I fear is quite fraught with danger. Both of his design and creatures of old, and the young man you encountered.” Her smile sharpened. “The latter most of all.”

“I’ll deal with him. In my own way,” he added hastily, seeing the look in her eye.

“Perhaps, and perhaps not.” Her eyes glittered. “Many paths lay out before you, Harry Potter. How you choose them will determine the fates of more than just your own.”

The goddess began to glow. Harry hastily averted his eyes and thew a hand across his face to shield him from her true form. In a rush of wind and dance of static energies across his skin, she was gone.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, blowing out a breath through his nose. Six more. Four, that bastard had left hints on throughout his life and known obsession toward the founders and their legacies, and his desire to have Slytherin named greatest above all. 

The other two? No such hinting had been found.

With a sigh, Harry turned and made his exit from the ruins of Hogwarts. “Dumbledore first, I suppose,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket for, of all things, an empty pouch of lemon drops. “He’d have the best insight.”

His world turned sideways as a magical hook caught him around the navel and jerked him away from the ruins the instant his fingers brushed against the fabric.


	3. Distant Ties

The children of Hades and Hecate had always held a sort of mutual respect for one another, a reflection, perhaps, of their godly parents’ natures. Though Hecate had indeed lit the way for Demeter to search for Persephone once upon a time, their domains often intersected and mingled in ways mysterious to all but themselves.

All the more reason, Nico mused, to reach out to Lou Ellen whenever something like this should come up.

Of all the other cabins, Cabin 20 was the one which might have served just as much comfort as his own. The brick walls were inscribed with magical runes which glowed an eerie green at dawn, noon, and dusk and an array of magic sigils surrounding a crimson pentagram decorated the wooden door. Inside, he knew, the room furnished with rows of bunk beds lined with protective runes, floating glow crystals, and a crossroads leading to, well, wherever in Tartarus they willed it.

Ironic, that a child of Hades would find another so mysterious and beguiling.

Nico knocked thrice upon the door and took a step to the side lest any stray spells come flying out—last time had been transfiguration. He hadn’t enjoyed spending time as a weasel until they’d stopped laughing long enough to undo their work.

Sure enough, the instant the door pulled open, a bolt of shimmering, watermelon pink came streaking out like a bullet and hit a clump of boudegnas, which then promptly burst into sickly green flames.

“Finn!” Lou Ellen shouted back into the cabin. “I’ve told you a hundred times! Turn off that stupid trip spell before you hit a camper! Chiron’s still miffed about Nico and Percy!”

Ah, yes. Percy.

Nico only just suppressed a snicker. Watching his old crush scamper around as a porcupine had certainly been interesting. 

He heard Lou Ellen sigh and mutter something under her breath—hopefully, not an actual curse. She poked her head around the door, her messy black hair spilling over her shoulders. “Sorry about that, Nico. You okay?”

“Only just.” Nico cast a meaningful look over his shoulders at those unfortunate plants. “Experimenting or training?”

“Training. That new camper we brought in last month.” Lou Ellen gave a rueful laugh. “He’s coming along nicely, but the whole control thing just isn’t there yet. Takes time.”

He nodded, his own time learning quite vivid in his memory. “As it does for all of us. Do you mind if I come in? I have a couple questions about magic.”

She beamed, her emerald eyes dancing. Emerald, the same color as that boy’s, he realized. “You’ve come to the right place! Come on in!” she said as she stepped aside and waved him inside. “Just mind where you step and keep your head on a swivel, beware of flying spells and shelves laden with potions and such.”

Sound advice. Nico gave her a nod of thanks and entered, careful to position himself behind Lou Ellen so she could deal with any wayward spells.

A move which earned a knowing smirk and laugh, but little more.

“What sort of things were you wanting to look into?” Lou Ellen asked in much the same tone one would use to discuss the weather. “Looking to put a spell on someone? Something, maybe? I’ve got a couple new curses, nasty things, I’ll tell you!”

“More historic and informative, actually.” Though, I’ll have to keep that in mind. “I was looking for some information on a sort of magic user I’d not seen before, and possibly more depending on the depth of your knowledge on them.” 

She hummed, beckoning him to follow her to a rather beautiful black rug adorned with the image of crossing torches the center of the room. Once their feet touched the torches, the rug lit a bright, bluish silver, and spread out in four paths. The crossroads.

Closing her eyes, Lou Ellen held her hands up and drew in a breath. “Left will take us into a section of the library containing family grimoires, right a space dedicated to the greatest warriors and families. Straight ahead will take us to history of magic and the different denominations you’ll find throughout the lands.”

“And straight back will take me outside,” Nico supplied.

“Actually, toward the door and straight into another errant spell, and a nasty one—Finn, I swear, if you don’t put that book down and get back to the basic texts!” 

Nico took a step away from the path toward the door, his eyes peering into the darkness. Wherever little Finn was practicing, he could only hope he’d have a split second to dive or shadow travel if another spell came his way. “Grimoires would be for more detailed family histories and, well, who knows with a wizard, right? Let’s stick with the history and denominations for now.”

Nodding, Lou Ellen lead him forward and opened the door situated just before them with a haphazard waggle of her fingers. With a shrill creak, it swung open to reveal a green carpeted room with study desks situated in the center area and beanbags off to the side, the walls were lined with tall oaken bookshelves and glowing crystals hovering lazily about each shelf.

“I’ll need specific characteristics,” Lou Ellen said. “Language of the spells, if he evoked them, might go a ways as well.”

The son of Hades frowned. The memory of their brief skirmish against the empousai and those wizards flashed before his eyes. “He cast several silently, but those he evoked sounded Latin. For what it’s worth, he used his wand as well.” Then, he remembered that ball of light and noise.

He blew a sharp breath through his nose. “And one without.”

Lou Ellen turned and wrinkled her brows. “Using a wand? That’s kinda … well, modern European, but confining things a bit. And Latin?” She twitched her fingers as if to beckon a book to spring from the shelf, and summoned one to hover before them. It opened and flipped through the pages seemingly of its own volition until an image of two people, a wizard in long flowing robes and pointed hat and a witch with wide brimmed sleeves and hat, stood posed with their wands raised and sparks flying. “Sort of like this?”

“Exactly like that.” Nico reached out and took the book in his hands, his gaze lingering upon that wizard as if it were Harry Potter himself. He could almost see that smirk, that glint in those emerald eyes just before he opened his palm to reveal that last spell. 

“Off the top of my head, I can think of a couple others on that sort, then. They’re more prevalent nowadays in Europe and the Americas, though Asia and Africa are a bit different.” Another pair of books floated over to hover before her. “Any idea where he might be from?”

“Britain or a colony,” came his immediate reply. “His accent was thick.”

“Wand user would make sense, then. Though with that wandless spell, that’s interesting. What’d it do?”

With a sigh and a skyward look, he ground out a quick summary of the last leg of their encounter, focusing on how quickly and seamlessly the boy had gone from casting with his wand to lulling him long enough to set off that spell, and the sudden flash and rush of sound it brought.

Lou Ellen gave a little hum in the back of her throat. “Sounds like a custom spell, one he created for himself. Quite clever, really.”

“Is that possible?”

“For us? It’s almost nothing. But that skill should either be lost or difficult for a legacy like him. At his age? If anything, it’s telling of his magical talent.”

Nico turned, arching a brow. “You think he’s a legacy because of one trick?”

She shook her head. “At some point, all magic users are legacies. Whether through a more direct descent or intermingling of lines during the old colonial ages and such, magical talent doesn’t just crop up like that.” Lou Ellen snapped her fingers and sent a flitter of purple and pink sparks through the air. “It’s heritable, kind of like genetics, really.”

Interesting. So, at very least, Harry Potter might have some Olympian blood in him in his family history. 

How often would he have faced down monsters, then? And why would those with more human faces give him such trouble?

More importantly, though, was something else. A little detail Lou Ellen had supplied. “You mentioned it should be more unlikely that he would be able to make a custom spell?” he asked. “Let alone cast without a wand?”

“Think of your own talents for a minute, Nico. Which would you say might be your most dangerous, both for yourself and others?”

Which specifically?

Well, there was a long list. “For myself, shadow travel. For others …” Nico pressed his lips together. “It’s up there, but I’d say the times I’ve sent souls to the Underworld or let my powers seep through my feet and fingers to kill plants.”

“Right. So, custom spells are like that for us.” Lou Ellen held out her hands, palms up. “Spellcrafting, for us, can take little more than imagination and the right spark. Magic changes for us, but we have to will it so. And that takes a lot to do when first creating them.”

Very interesting.

Nico closed the book in his hands and reached out to accept the other two she’d retrieved. “Do you mind if I take these for reading?” he asked. “I’ll return them when done.”

She gave him an airy wave. “Sure, go ahead. Just don’t dog-ear the pages. One of my brothers back in the day put a few curses on the books because he got testy. Albiero found himself stuck as a kitten for a week.”

“Good to know.” What is with people and gods turning me into thing? With a nod of thanks, Nico turned and hurried out of Cabin 20, making sure to leap to the side the instant his shoes touched the front porch just in time to avoid another spell.

This one turned some poor, unsuspecting rabbit into a teapot.

From within, Nico heard Lou Ellen shout, “Finn! When I get my hands on you …”

The door slammed shut behind him. Whether to protect him from any stray spells or to ensure little Finn couldn’t go running from his sister’s wrath, Nico wasn’t entirely certain. To be perfectly honest, he didn’t particularly care, either.

He felt little shame in using his shadow travel to ensure he arrived safe and sound on his bed in Cabin 13 with no additional fur or limbs or loss of his thumbs. Even the children of Hades knew the value of a tactical retreat, and that was indeed a retreat.

Once he felt that soft mattress beneath him and opened his eyes to find his dark, torchlit room, Nico breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned back until his head rested against his pillow, the cool silken sheets teasing the back of his neck, and set two of the books aside so he could flip through the first Lou Ellen had supplied. 

A grim smile played upon his lips. “I’ll have something planned for you next time, Harry Potter.”

You and those stupid, piercing emerald eyes.


	4. Echoes of a Nightmare

Although the magical world liked to pretend itself different than their muggle counterparts, Harry knew quite well that there were more similarities in both culture, demeanor, and society than met the eye. Oh, certainly, the magical world had taken a different route somewhere in the time of the Middle Ages, but it was there.

One just had to look well enough.

But if there was one truth, just one Harry had to point to in order to explain the current state of affairs in his home country, it was the weight of history. That is to say, the importance of heritage, culture, and the preservation of the old.

Although Dumbledore and the remaining Hogwarts staff did their best to preserve and continue magical education in the Isles, there was something to be said for the demoralizing of the populace when word circulated that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had razed Hogwarts itself to the ground.

Namely, how their standing in Europe had fallen like a rock in the aftermath, even as Dumbledore and McGonagall attempted to open their own institution in the aged wizard’s family home, a testament to their dedication, and that of their peers who chose to remain. A gesture that certainly went a long way at home.

Still, it wasn’t the same.

Harry knew that much, even as he pushed open the wrought-iron gate to the old Dumbledore Mansion and passed by a garden maintained by the work of caring students and house elves in tandem with Professor Sprout herself, and walked up that cobblestone pathway leading up to the front door. The mansion itself? Beautiful. Fashioned in an old Tudor style that harkened back to the rise of the British Empire.

Nothing compared to Hogwarts. And Dumbledore himself knew it, he felt it.

But he tried.

The front door opened before Harry came within two yards of the front steps, and out stepped that aged master of magics most couldn’t begin to fathom. Why, had he not known better, had he not confirmed it with the goddess herself, Harry would have to believe him Hecate’s greatest heir.

A legacy, only. Not a son. But a legacy matched only by two dark wizards who waged war with him over the decades and came up short. That Dumbledore could accomplish such feats, that he could draw fear in Voldemort spoke volumes for his prowess.

That he could invoke such respect while wearing robes the gaudiest, most fluorescent shade of purple with a matching pointed hat, and his beard trailing down to his waist, was a miracle in and of itself.

Doubly so when Harry noticed that he’d tied it off near the end with, of all things, a pair of silver bells on a pink thread.

“Dare I ask who we’re wearing today?” Harry quipped as he drew near.

Dumbledore’s eyes danced. “You imply that I would take fashion advice from any who think orange isn’t a reasonable primary color.” He glanced at Harry’s arm and leg, a slight frown tugging at his wrinkled features. “And I see you’ve chosen to wear a bit of yourself today, my boy.”

Harry gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Didn’t think to clean up before I came over. Let me just—” 

With a wave of his wand, Dumbledore drew the blood from Harry’s clothes and let it come together in midair in a churning, formless blob. He shot the boy a critical look and said, “That is not what I meant.” He vanished it with a little flick of his wrist and a sigh, then turned to beckon him inside. “Won’t you join me in my office—study, rather. We can discuss your ongoing extracurriculars.”

Oh, lovely. Nodding, Harry stepped past him and through the open door. I guess this will be a mutual exchange rather than a quick visit.

Dumbledore led him through the sitting room, where about fifteen or twenty-odd students were sitting on cushions or couches and reading over the day’s lessons. A few, Harry recognized on sight and spared a little half wave so not to disturb them too much. But absent were Ron and Hermione.

A little pang of disappointment shot through him. They were probably sleeping or arguing over some assignment Ron had put off until the last minute. As he was so wont to do.

He didn’t have much time to dwell, though, as he found himself guided down a long hallway lined with wooden doors. Second-last noon the left, he knew from memory to be their destination. It opened before they were two steps from it, admitting them to a room lined with bookshelves made of old, polished mahogany and filled to the brim with spellbooks, some older than any could say. 

And across the room, resting on his favorite perch just a foot or so away from Dumbledore’s desk, and the countless knick-backs and magical items and sensors—oh, and a bowl of lemon drop sweets—was a slumbering phoenix.

 

Fawkes. The same phoenix who had appeared alongside the leader of the Order of the Phoenix for centuries.

Harry grinned. Some things never change. Good. “May I?” he asked.

“Of course.” Dumbledore chuckled. He shuffled by the Order’s effective mascot and coaxed him awake with a little touch just beneath his beak. “Wake up, old friend. Someone is here to see you.”

Fawkes withdrew his beak from beneath a fiery orange and red wing and aimed a sleepy glare at Dumbledore, akin to a moody teenager being awaken from a mid afternoon nap. Then, he looked over and saw Harry.

His head perked, he ruffled his feathers in glee and gave a merry trill. Fawkes launched himself from his perch with a single flap of his beautiful wings, circling around his head twice as if to check him over.

Harry laughed and shifted his positioning a little to allow the excited phoenix to land on his shoulder so he could nuzzle against Harry’s cheek. “Good to see you as well,” he said softly. “How’ve you been?”

Another happy trill sent warmth through his chest. Then, Fawkes looked pointedly at his forearm and leg, much in the same manner as Dumbledore had.

The old wizard chuckled. “It seems Fawkes is no more amused with your state as I was.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “I wonder what Professor McGonagall might say had I not cleaned your clothes just a moment ago.”

A shiver ran down Harry’s spine. “Why would you give me such horrid visions? I didn’t deserve that.”

“Were she here,” Dumbledore said with a sigh, “your mother would disagree. Though, I wonder if she would too busy lecturing in my place, your father …” He shook his head. “Difficult to say if he would have been hiding a smile or trying to steer you from his own adventurous tendencies.”

Harry let his gaze fall to Fawkes. The phoenix leaned up to nuzzle against his cheek in comfort, singing a melancholy tune. “I’d prefer that.”

“Of course. My apologies. I forget sometimes the friends I and others lost were nothing by comparison—” he looked as though he might say more on the subject, but thought better on it. “Your search. Has it yielded any results?”

A welcome change.

Harry nodded. “She was evasive, she never used the term you gave, but I think based on what I saw, you were right. A container, a vessel for him to put his own mortal soul to anchor himself to this realm.”

“An escape from death.” Dumbledore closed his eyes. “I confess, I hoped it would’ve been the onset of some ailment brought on by age.”

“I think we all might have.” Harry reached up to tickle beneath Fawkes’s chin for a moment. “It explains only a little of what we know. How he managed to survive long enough to attach himself to some sort of host body, at least. The question I have is how he did that without having to use one of them.”

“That, we would have to ask him.”

“Oh, then let me send a letter.”

Again, Dumbledore chuckled. “Oh, were it so easy.” He looked Harry in the eye once more and leaned back in his chair, lacing his gnarled fingers together. “What did you find? And where?”

Harry gave him a quick rundown of where he’d been, what he’d come in contact with during his journey to the States. The fight against the gorgon sisters, his wounds at their taloned hands, retrieving Helga Hufflepuff’s trophy cup from a mountain of treasures and tattered orange and purple shirts that looked just the right size for a kids around his age—he tried not to think of where they’d come from—and then, the Death Eaters tailing him, waiting to make their move.

All the while, Dumbledore remained quiet, his piercing blue eyes full of focus. As Harry recounted the details, the voice haunting him as he carried the cup to his destination, that desperate effort to instill doubt win his mind before he destroyed its foul container.

Once Harry had finished, the old wizard let out a slow, tired sigh. “It is as we feared then,” he murmured. “I dared to hope when you came to me with word that the Mother of Magic sent you on a quest to settle old scores, that she had somehow been mistaken when she spoke of them.”

A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, warning him against such thoughts again.

Dumbledore smiled. “As we can both see,” he added with humor, “I was quite wrong to question her.”

“Which means we need to find some way to find the rest of them,” Harry replied. “And then kill him, that way he stays dead this time.”

“Quite so. Where were you looking to resume your search, might I ask?”

Sighing, Harry gave his shoulder a little shrug to prompt Fawkes to take flight and return to his perch, earning himself a little nip to his ear in reply. Then, he collapsed in one of the nearby chairs and brought a palm to cover his eyes. “I was thinking it might be best to see if there might be any insight as to where he went in the States, just in case he hid a couple there. But I need to know what I’m looking for as well.”

At that, Dumbledore’s brows raised. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his desk, and hummed. “In his younger years,” he began slowly, “Voldemort was just as focused a wizard as he was when he began his campaign for purity. Old magics and rituals, ancient texts on theories of immortality, and the founders themselves were his primary interests.”

Harry frowned. That left quite a lot of latitude for items and trinkets they’d held over the years. A quick glance at his wristwatch, namely the sword of Godric Gryffindor hidden by Hecate’s magics gave him pause. He reached up, brushing his palm across its face. “You don’t think he would’ve gotten the chance to turn the sword …”

Dumbledore shook his head. “That sword has been well-hidden,” he replied softly. “That the Mother of Magic entrusted it to you speaks volumes of your goals and her trust that you will see them through.” After a beat, he added, “I can do a bit of digging to see what I can find here.”

“That would be brilliant.” Harry offered a small smile and nod in turn. He drummed his hands against the arms of his chair, then rocked himself up to stand and stretch. “I’m going to go sleep this off and then head back over in a couple days, I guess. We had the cup first, perhaps something each founder was known for?”

“My thoughts exactly, my boy.” The old wizard smiled. “You look tired. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to stay the night in one of the student rooms?”

Harry winced and took a step back from the desk. “I think it might be best if I just head home. Wouldn’t want to disrupt things, you know?” He turned and began to walk away, his steps quick, telling of his eagerness to escape.

But Dumbledore knew just which buttons to push. “I’m sure everyone would be thrilled to see you back, if only for a few hours in the morning.” He waited until Harry had one foot out the door before adding, “Your friends, especially, will be overjoyed.”

He froze in place.

Damn him.

“You know I can’t,” he murmured.

He could almost feel the sadness in the way Dumbledore looked at him. “Harry, you can’t run from pain. And you can’t keep blaming yourself for what happened to Miss Weasley.”

His hands clenched into tight fists, he could feel his nails biting into his palms.

“They don’t,” Dumbledore continued as he laid a hand upon his shoulder. “You were a twelve year old boy, Harry, and only fifteen, now.”

Harry drew in a long, slow breath and held it a moment. Fury built in his chest like hellfire.

“One night,” he said. “Just one. Not in a student room, though.”

Dumbledore’s hand squeezed his shoulder tight. “Thank you. Now, come. I’ll show you to your room.”


End file.
